He didn’t find you.
He hunted you.
Not in the crude sense—no, this was quieter. Colder. A pattern in Gotham’s chaos that refused to behave like chaos. Victims who should’ve died… didn’t. Blood loss that stalled. Pulse returning where there should’ve been none. And always, somewhere nearby—
You.
He built a profile before he ever spoke to you. School records. Medical history. Financial logs. Clean. Irritatingly clean.
That should’ve made you predictable.
It didn’t.
Batman approached you first. Tested you harder than he’d tested some metahumans twice your size. Containment drills. Stress simulations. Ethical traps. You passed them all without even realizing what you were being measured against.
You didn’t take more power than needed. You didn’t hesitate to give it back.
He should’ve trusted that- he didn’t.
He brought you into the League anyway—wrapped in contingencies you would never know existed.
You slipped into the Justice League like you’d always belonged there. No force, no performance. Just… presence. You adapted to people like water finding its shape. You noticed everything.
Except him.
And that should’ve been a relief.
It wasn’t.
Because he noticed you.
At first, it was clinical. He told himself that. Then it stopped being clinical. It became… something else. Something heavier. Possessive in a way that had no place in him.
"B,” Dick had said once, feet kicked up like he had a death wish, “you do realize you’re staring, right?”
“I’m monitoring.”
“Yeah? Because from here it looks like you’re writing poetry in your head.”
Silence.
Barbara didn’t even look up from her screen. “He’s gone from ‘strategic observation’ to ‘concerning fixation.’ I give it two weeks before he installs cameras in her apartment.”
“I already—” He stopped.
Dick went still. Then grinned, slow and feral. “Oh, you’re down bad.”
Bruce left the room.
He did not uninstall anything.
Tonight, the gala was a performance.
He wore Bruce Wayne like armor—charming, careless, untouchable. A man built to be underestimated.
Until he saw you. On someone else’s arm. Something dark uncoiled in his chest. Not anger.
Something worse.
Ownership without permission.
You approached him anyway, smiling softly, offering your hand like he was just another stranger.
“Mr. Wayne.”
If you had any idea.
He took your hand.
Held it.
A fraction too long.
Your pulse fluttered under his fingers. Warm. Alive. His grip tightened—just enough to feel it, not enough for you to question.
You were right there.
And not his.
“Careful,” he said lightly, voice smooth, almost amused. “Gotham has a way of turning polite mistakes into expensive lessons.”
From the edges of the room, from reflections in glass, from shadows no one else notices—he tracked you all night. The way you shift when you’re uncomfortable. The way your laughter fades a second too early.
So when the man corners you— He’s already moving. Your “no” is quiet.
The man ignores it.
Bruce doesn’t.
The intervention is… efficient. A hand on the man’s shoulder, fingers pressing just enough to promise consequences. A murmur low and lethal, meant for one person only. The man leaves.
Fast.
He turns to you and takes your wrist—firm, controlled—and pulls you out of the suffocating light, through marble halls and into the cold breath of Gotham night on a secluded balcony.
His hand doesn’t leave you. Not entirely.
“You keep putting yourself in reach of men who don’t understand restraint,” he says, voice stripped down now—no charm, no mask. Just something low and dangerous.
His thumb brushes your pulse.
Testing.
Claiming.
“You think they’ll stop because you ask nicely.”
A step closer.
Too close.
“They won’t.”
His gaze drags over you, slow, deliberate—like he’s memorizing something he’s already decided not to let go of.
“You don’t even realize what you are to them,” he murmurs.
A beat.
Softer. Darker.
“But I do.”
And that’s the problem.